


Crazy Eight

by orphan_account



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Anger Management, Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Body Dysphoria, Body Image, Bulimia, Eating Disorders, Fat Shaming, Friendship, Gen, Hospitalization, Masturbation, Mental Health Issues, Mental Hospital, POV First Person, Psychological Drama, Schizophrenia, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt, Teacher-Student Relationship, Teenagers, Therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-08
Updated: 2017-11-08
Packaged: 2019-01-30 23:42:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12663861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: One doctor. One aide. Eight teenage boys all crazy in one way or another. Some are trapped. Some are just passing through. Alfred Jones knows he won't be here forever. But while he's here, he might as well try to make some friends.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted on FFN but I removed it because it's going to get dark and I didn't want to have to tame it down to suit their rules. Updates will be very random and slow to come, I'm warning you now. Please lower your hopes accordingly :P
> 
> Also, a word of advice: stay away from thinspo blogs. Just atrocious.
> 
> Thank you for reading! :)

So today's my first day in the looney bin.

I gotta say, it's a lot nicer than I thought it'd be. A real big place, with an area rug and potted plants in the reception area. At first, it seems like an old folks' home, like the one we used to visit Grampa in before he died. But then you notice the glass that protects the lady sitting at the front desk. You see the sign on the wall that bans sharp objects and warns against loose hair, loose clothing, and eyeglasses. Does that mean I have to take my glasses off? But I didn't bring any contacts. How will I see? Nerves snatch at my stomach, sloshing the lemonade in there. Oh Christ, why did I let my mother get me lemonade for lunch? It was such a good idea at the time. _Here, honey, one last taste of summer before you go in._ As if it matters what season it is outside. It isn't even summer right now, it's winter. Christmas. Happy New Year! Candles. . . .

"Mr. Jones?"

I blink. The receptionist is staring at me expectantly, like she's waiting for me to say something. I don't have anything special to say, so I ask, "Do I have to give you my glasses?"

Now she's looking at me like she's trying to figure out if I'm crazy. Seems like a foregone conclusion, if you ask me. I'm in here, aren't I? (Grampa used to say fancy words like that, _foregone_ and _aftermost_ and _happenstance_. I only got old enough to understand them after he died, though.)

I point to the sign. "It says it's dangerous to wear glasses."

She shakes her head. "Those are rules for visitors. You don't have to worry about that."

Right. 'Cause I'm not leaving.

My mother signs the admission papers—so many papers in the last couple weeks, she probably wishes I died for good that night instead of coming back to life and giving her all this work—then turns to me. When I was little, I used to look up into her eyes, the same blue as mine, and see nothing but love. These days, I'm the same height as her (a little taller actually) and I look into her eyes and just see exhaustion. What is she tired of? Me? Work? Life?

She hugs me, even though we've never been a family that hugs. The last time her arms were around me, I was a wriggling little kid, and it was me hugging her; she never initiated it. I put my hands on her shoulder blades for a moment. She smells like hairspray and cranberry hand soap.

"As soon as you get better, you can come home," she whispers. "Just remember when I was trying to lose weight. It's just mind over matter. Don't let your body tell you what to do. I know you can get through this, sweetie."

And then she's gone, leaving me with more insidious words in my head. They get tangled in the worms of my brain, I can feel them in there, blood smeared on grey matter. Fish hooks. Digging in, piercing. Barbed wire and black ooze, that's what my mother leaves in my head. _Get well soon._

" _Mr. Jones_."

There's the receptionist again, sitting behind her glass, sounding exasperated. She's like a bank teller in there, telling everyone who comes to her that they're rich in suffering. Or a ticket seller at an old movie theater. I wonder what kind of horror movie life here will be.

Really, though, she's a fortune teller. She points to the elevator at the end of the little hall. "The second floor," she says. "There will be someone there to escort you to your room."

I'm surprised there isn't someone to escort me now. But, I suppose I'm not considered a risk. Not like some of the people here. The clinic is huge, and there are all sorts of nuts here. Adults who have brains like babies. Murderers who were deemed too crazy to be responsible for their crimes (who knew madness could be a Get Out of Jail Free card?). Kids with autism, mutism, just-plain-weird-ism. In the elevator with my bag, I hear a scream, long and ragged, but I have no idea what made it or why. Just some mentally unsound animal. That's all we are in here.

The elevator stops, the doors slide apart, and there is the most beautiful lady I've ever seen, wearing the ugliest pantsuit I've ever seen. She smiles, radiating kindness and warmth, and says, "Good afternoon, Alfred. Do you mind if I call you Alfred?"

I step out of the elevator, taking all of her in. She has an accent, and her skin is darker than mine, but I can't place where she's from. Somewhere in Europe, maybe. I reply, "No, I don't mind. There are worse things to be called." I'm not sure where this weak attempt at humor is coming from, since I'm really not in the happy laughy mood. It's probably my dick. I haven't had a girlfriend in a long time, but this woman is making old passions stir. Jesus, listen to me, I sound like I'm in a romance novel. Am I already going insane? I've only been in Crazy Land for five minutes!

Her smile doesn't get bigger, but it doesn't shrink, either. "That's very true. I'm Dr. Lemmens, but I like to be informal, so please, feel free to call me Laura."

Laura Lemmens? What a name, for what a lady. Maybe this won't be so bad, if this is what my new psychiatrist is like.

I follow her to a wall in the middle of the hallway, a partition, I guess it's called. I can see past it, because there's a window beside the door. The glass has tiny chain-link inside it, so it can't be broken. The lemonade chills in my stomach. I expected it to _feel_ like a prison, but I didn't think there'd be literal barred windows.

"This is our wing," says Dr. Lemmens, using a key card from her pocket to open the door. "And I suppose you could say it's my project. I never realized how few resources this state has for troubled teens. This clinic had sections for young children and adults, but no space especially for teenagers. _Real_ teenagers, those in the difficult space between childhood and adulthood."

Real teenagers? That sounds like the dictionary definition of teenagers to me, but I don't say that. Instead, I ask, "How many others are here?"

"You are our eighth." Her heels clip clop down the hall, a little faster than my steps, silent in sneakers. "You'll be better acquainted with everyone once you attend the Group session we'll be having in a little while, but for now I'll tell you their names. The first two rooms here are the Group therapy room and the recreation room, that's where you'll spend a lot of your spare time. Room One, Matthew Williams, across from Room Two, Kiku Honda and Feliciano Vargas. Room Three, Arthur Kirkland. Four, Francis Bonnefoi. Five, Ivan Braginsky. And finally, Six, Ludwig Beilschmidt."

All of these doors are closed. I wonder what's going on behind them. Are they still asleep? There are no clocks around here, but I remember the dash clock in the car said 12:32 before my mother parked in the clinic lot. I can't imagine they let us sleep in until noon here. That doesn't seem very prison-y.

Dr. Lemmens performs telepathy and says, "They're all eating lunch in their rooms right now. We have clearance for the cafeteria, but I think it's best if we all get comfortable with each other before we meet people from other units. It helps to have a team dynamic in place when experiencing new things."

I barely hear a world she says past _lunch_ , but _cafeteria_ uppercuts me. I'm in the cafeteria at school, staring down into my lunch box. How did it get empty? Did I really eat everything already? I'll have to ask my mother to put more food in, but then she'll look at my belly and say, _Do you really need it?_ Yes, I need it, I'm hungry, Mommy. I'll have to sneak cookies into my backpack. I'll have to steal money from her purse so I can buy an extra lunch. And I'll have to go for a run after school so I don't get heavier. But I have homework, and homework makes me hungry. . . .

"Alfred?" Dr. Lemmens smiles gently at me. We're standing at the end of the hallway. The end of our wing, the Real Teenagers Wing. Her project. Eight little guinea pigs.

"Sorry," I say, clearing my throat a little. "Just lost in thought."

She nods with a knowing look on her face, but somehow I doubt she's right about what she's _knowing_ about. "This is my office," she says, using her key card to open the door at the very end of the hall. "It's where we'll do private therapy sessions. And it's where you'll be eating your meals for a while."

 _Eating your meals._ Like it's that easy. Like this isn't the worst goddamn idea I've ever heard. _I want to go home. I want to go home right now_. But I can't act crazy. That'll just get me stuck in here longer. So I force myself to ask calmly, "Why can't I eat in my room?" And that makes me realize she never said what room will be mine. They all already have people in them, and one is doubled up. Who will be my roommate? And, more importantly, what will be wrong with him?

Dr. Lemmens gives me more of the knowing look, but it has some sympathy in it now. "Because you're here for eating issues, Alfred, and I need to make sure that you get the nutrients you need. And if you need help during mealtimes, emotional reassurance, I'll do my very best to provide it."

I'm gonna lose my mind in here. This woman is going to hold my hand while she _watches me eat_? Absolutely not. _Never_. And if she does make me eat, I'll throw it back up as soon as possible. Wherever I can find a good place. I used to have a plastic bag in my pocket at all times, just in case, but I don't have it anymore, obviously.

Dr. Lemmens must be tired of waiting for a response from me, because she uses the key card on the door and ushers me into her office. For some reason I expected it to be all plush pink, but it just looks like the typical office. Chair, desk, two chairs on the other side, and a couch. She's a full-blown psychiatrist, couch and all. It's not one of those black leather ones you see in the movies, though. It's a blue loveseat that looks like it came from a grandma's living room. There are no pictures on the desk, no family or anything, but there are paintings of flowers and cats on the walls. The whole place is supposed to give a calming vibe, I can tell. Something about that makes me feel irritated.

"I'd like to have a small talk with you before you go to your room. You'll be sharing Room One, with Matthew, by the way." She sits at her desk. "Please, take a seat wherever you're most comfortable."

" _Most_ comfortable? Well, I'd have to test out all the seats, to find out which is best."

"You can do that, if you'd like."

I would like, if only because it stalls the conversation. That's what my time will be here, I can see it now. Stalling. Biding. Trying to keep seconds in my hands as long as possible. It's like the world's longest, slowest anxiety attack. That's the best way to describe anxiety, for me, by the way. I realized it a few months back, at Thanksgiving. If I could sit and focus all my attention, all my energy, do nothing but sit, and time would stand still, I would do that in a heartbeat. Because there's nothing more terrifying than facing the next second. Anything could happen, and how is someone supposed to cope with that?

It's enough to make someone kill themselves. But I didn't. I wasn't brave enough. I just ate.

I sit on each of the chairs opposite the desk. Firm, not much back support. I head for the couch. Much better. I lift my legs up, letting them hang over the other end while I lounge. I glance over at Dr. Lemmens and I'm shocked to see her jotting something down on a piece of paper.

She notices my attention and asks, "Is that the best seat?"

"Yeah. What are you writing?"

"I'm just labeling the date on my notes. I like to write down important things patients mention in our sessions. It helps me track progress. Do you mind if I write things down?"

Progress, to me, means getting out of here, and if notes make that happen faster, "I'm all for it."

She smiles. "Excellent. So, I'd just like to ask a few questions. We'll start with something easy. How old are you?"

She doesn't know? "Sixteen."

"How long have you had problems with food?"

I have to think about this one. I don't mind being asked questions; it's answering them that I have trouble with. "I guess . . . I guess it started when I was thirteen. So, three years."

She writes it down. "Do you remember what started it?"

"I don't know. It was all that media crap, I guess. Ads with muscular guys. Magazines. That ideal image of a man, you know? I wanted to look like that but I didn't." I don't even need to make this stuff up. We learned about it in health class. "It made me feel bad about myself."

She's nodding slowly, thoughtfully, and scribbling away at that paper. I guess mind doctors still have bad handwriting like normal doctors. "What did you do to make yourself feel better?"

This is pretty obvious. "I ate."

"Did you feel worse, after the eating made you gain weight?"

Even more obvious. "Yeah."

"Did you try any methods to lose weight? Exercise, dieting?"

"My mother was always dieting, so we were always going through different food rules in the house." She stops writing and looks up at me. This is getting too real. I move to a different track. "I tried to exercise, walking and running, but I hated it, being sore and tired and all. It just made me feel worse. And not eating made me feel worse, too. So I kept eating and started throwing it back up, so it couldn't make me bigger."

Bigger, heavier, chubbier. I don't say the F word. I won't.

Dr. Lemmens is back to writing. "How old were you when you started purging?"

That's what they call it on the thinspiration message boards, binging and purging. And fasting, but I never did that. I couldn't manage it. (Most of those sites are for girls. They all want to get skinny enough so their thighs don't touch, so their collarbones poke out, so the only big parts of their bodies are breast and asses. It's depressing that a lot of them won't be able to have kids because of the damage done to their bodies. But I don't want to be a skeleton like that. I just want to look good. I want to look in the mirror and see something worth being happy about.)

"I was fifteen, I guess."

"How often did you do it?"

"Not a lot, in the beginning. Once a month, maybe."

"How often did you do it before you were admitted to the hospital?"

I shrug. "I was up to four or five times a day. It depends on how much I snacked. But Christmas was the most ever. Seven times."

Seven was my lucky number. Who could have predicted that? Definitely not me. Definitely not my cousin, who found me on the floor. What a mess.

Dr. Lemmens looks at me, brow furrowed in pity. Does she really feel bad for me? It seems genuine, but I'm not the best at reading people. She says, "I'm not allowed to tell you how much you weigh, because the doctors at the hospital agree that it would tempt you into more unhealthy behavior. But I can assure you, Alfred, that your weight—for your age, sex, and height—is perfectly healthy. You're not overweight, and you're certainly not obese. You're comfortable in the healthy weight range for your group."

Bullshit. She's delusional. The doctors are delusional. Just like those damn BMI calculators online, I bet that's what these idiots are using. They don't know. They don't live in this body. They don't see it with my eyes. They don't know anything.

"You look like you don't believe me, Alfred."

"I don't."

"You think you're obese?"

"No."

"You think you're overweight?"

"Yes."

"Why is that?"

I can't stand this. This beautiful, thin woman in this stupid office wearing that ugly pantsuit asking me why I _think I'm overweight._ Like I'm a baby. Like I'm blind. I don't think. _I know!_

I sit up quickly, my sneakers slamming down on the floor, and jerk my shirt up to my chin. "Look at this," I say. I'm spitting, my lips are wet, I probably look crazy, but I don't care. I grab the muffin top that won't fit under my jeans, squeeze it tight. My fingers digging into my flesh used to hurt a lot more, but I'm used to it now. I saw it on a thinspo blog. _Pinch your inches._ _The pain is a reminder that the chub shouldn't be there!_ It's like cutting but without the cutting, I guess, although my fingernails have broken the skin a few times. (It doesn't make me feel better, pain. I'm not that kind of crazy.)

Dr. Lemmens is looking, but she doesn't have the pity anymore. She just looks at me, my disgusting stomach, like you'd look at a lamp. Or a basket of laundry. Like it's just a normal thing. What is _wrong_ with her?

"Healthy and skinny aren't always the same thing, Alfred," she tells me. "Some people are skinny without trying, and they can eat whatever they like without gaining a pound. My brother is like that." She looks fond for a second, then back to business. "It all depends on metabolisms, and DNA, and many other factors. It isn't the fault of the person, what their healthy weight is. You shouldn't blame yourself."

Blame myself? What is she talking about?

I grasp the flab on either side of my waist. Insult to injury—people actually call them love handles. "Look at this," I say again, less crazy this time. "I look at this all the time. It's shitty. I don't like it. I want to get rid of it. What's wrong with that? Wanting to look a certain way? I want to dye my hair, nobody puts me in an asylum. Why is this so bad?"

Dr. Lemmens doesn't speak for a moment. Her eyes, dark green, seem to be pleading with me to try and see things from her point of view. My mother's eyes used to do that, too. And the eyes of my kindergarten teacher. (She was a lovely woman. Always gave us animal crackers at snack time.)

"It isn't inherently bad to lose weight," she says. "In your case, being at a healthy weight, it wouldn't be negative to lose a few pounds. But it's the methods you use that matter. Weight loss needs to come from healthy food choices and regular exercise. Not miracle pills or starving yourself or purging everything you ingest."

"Hang on," I say. I pull my shirt back down. "Did you just say it's okay if I lose weight?"

She hesitates. "Well—yes, you have a margin of weight you could lose without becoming underweight."

"How big is the margin?"

"I can't tell you your weight details—"

"How many pounds can I lose?"

"Alfred." She looks stern. "You're here to become mentally healthy. Not to lose weight. You don't physically need to. And I think it would be far more constructive for you to become comfortable with your body as it is now, rather than strive for a weight you may not be able to happily and healthily achieve."

 _Blah blah_. I only care about one part—I can get thinner, and no one can lock me up for it. I just need to figure out what my weight is. I know what the underweight line is, I've seen it all over the internet. Girls shouldn't go below one hundred pounds. Boys should stay above one hundred and twenty. Height matters, but I'm not very tall. Just average. So I should be alright there. I just need to see where I can get rid of the food Dr. Lemmens makes me eat, and I'll be good to go.

I stand up. "Are we all done? Can I see my room now? I'm excited to get unpacked and meet my roommate."

Dr. Lemmens looks reluctant, but she stands and opens the door for me. "He may not talk to you at first. He has very high levels of social anxiety. He's terrified of rejection, so he needs a lot of reassurance. You'll have to be kind to him."

I can do that. Anxiety? Sounds like a guy I can relate to. "Why am I in with Matthew and not any of the other guys?"

"Well, they're all different, but none of the other patients have proven that they can be trusted overnight with someone else." She glances at me. "You should know that the hallway and the rooms are under video surveillance. The bathrooms, too."

 _Damn it!_ How will I get rid of food, then? There has to be somewhere in here that isn't recorded. Maybe in the rec room. I'll have to wait and find out. _Damn_. I should be mad that they watch us use the bathroom, but I'm not really that surprised. At least they give us bathrooms instead of toilets out in the open, like in jail cells.

Room One's door is unlocked. I wonder if the other rooms, the ones holding those who can't be trusted with others, go unlocked. All doors are locked at night, I knew that before I came. The brochure for this place—like it's some hot vacation spot—said the curfew was nine, lights out at nine-thirty. I've never had a curfew before. I haven't had a bedtime since I was ten. I just hope I won't get cabin fever.

"All finished with lunch, Matthew?" Dr. Lemmens asks, leading me into the room. My room.

The walls are pastel blue. The floor is the dull beige of sand. The beds are on opposite sides of the room, the bathroom off to the left. Matthew's side, by the looks of it. No windows, just a calendar on the wall above Matthew's bed, stuck with sticky tack. The picture just looks like a bunch of red-leafed trees to me. It's the only red thing I've seen in here so far. Red's an angry, violent, gory color. Not beneficial to have in a mental clinic, I suspect.

My roommate is a small guy, hunched shyly over a plush white pillow. He has glasses like me, and he hasn't looked at me yet; he just stares up at Dr. Lemmens as she takes his tray with its empty plate and glass.

"Did you like your lunch?" she asks, her voice way kinder than it ever was with me. She almost sounds like she's talking to a baby, or to a really old person. Someone really vulnerable.

Mattew's eyes—they almost look purple, but my grampa would probably call them azure or something—squint a little. He looks like he's in pain, struggling to push through it. Is this what crippling shyness looks like? It makes me want to figure out what he's trying to say and voice it for him. Poor guy.

Dr. Lemmens pats Matthew's shoulder gently. "You can tell me later, if you'd like."

Matthew gives a small, miserable nod, and Dr. Lemmens steps back. "As I told you about yesterday, Matthew, this is your new roommate. His name is Alfred Jones. He's a year older than you, but he's very nice, and he's pretty funny!" She glances at me and winks, like I'm in on something with her.

"Don't talk me up like that," I say, half a smile working on my mouth. "I'll have to come up with a whole routine. Matthew'll be outta here by then, right, buddy?"

I'm talking to him just like I talk with my youngest cousin, a five-year-old spitfire who climbed me like a tree the whole time he visited for Christmas dinner. I like him the most out of my family—the ones that are still alive, I mean. I don't mind kids. They don't judge.

Matthew ducks his head, hiding his chin in his pillow, but there's a hint of a smile in his eyes. Mostly anxiety and discomfort, but a little spark, too.

"I'll leave you boys to it," says Dr. Lemmens, heading for the door. "We're having a Group session in twenty minutes. I'll come by and let you know when it's time."

And with that, she's gone. I listen to her heels clip-clopping to the other rooms, collecting lunch trays, I assume. I glance at Matthew, but he just watches me in silence. So I put my bag on my bed and start transporting my clothes to the little trunk at the foot of the bed. I don't really see the point of this—it's basically just a square version of a bag, since it doesn't have drawers or shelves or anything—but I guess it makes me feel more at home. Less like this is a hotel. More like it's the worst dorm ever. I shove my empty bag under my bed, flop down on the mattress, and look over at Matthew.

"This place is pretty dismal," I say. "Do you know why we aren't allowed to have clocks?"

Matthew gets the squinty look again. It's actually kind of cute, or it would be if it didn't look so painful for him.

"Don't worry about it," I say quickly. "It's alright. You don't have to talk if it's too hard for you. No worries. I can talk enough for two people easily. You might have to tell me to shut up eventually."

This is sort of a lie. I used to be talkative like that. But the past year has been the birth of Silent Alfred. Speak only when spoken to. Do as you're told without protest. Be as little burden as possible. Why? So when my mother asked what I wanted from the grocery store, I wouldn't feel so guilty at my list of indulgences. I never ask for anything else, please let me have ice cream. But I guess she didn't notice my Silence, because she always said, _Do you really need all this stuff? It's so much sugar and carbs. I went on a low-carb cleanse, you know, I felt so much more awake. It would make it easier for you to exercise. Why don't you go for a run while I'm shopping?_

Sometimes I hate her.

I lie on my side on my bed. It's firmer than my mattress at home. Less lumpy. I miss the lumpy. "Can you nod and shake your head? If I ask yes or no questions?"

Matthew's whole body goes tense, panic in his eyes. After a few moments, he gives a tiny shrug.

I grin. "Okay. Let's try. Is your name Matthew?"

Something bright like amusement in his eyes. He nods slightly, chin still buried in his pillow.

"Have you been here a long time?"

A shrug.

"Have you been here . . . a year?"

He shakes his head.

"More than one month?"

He nods.

"Did you get that pillow for Christmas?"

Now he looks kind of confused. He slowly, slowly lifts his head off the pillow and turns it around in his arms. I realize it's not a pillow at all, it's a polar bear stuffie.

I smile. "Cute. Does he have a name?"

Matthew nods eagerly, getting braver already. What's it like to want to talk so desperately, but to have your brain stop you with intrusive anxious thoughts? Sounds like hell to me.

I know it's no use to ask, but I still do, "What's his name?"

Mattew's eagerness fades a bit. He hugs his bear close.

"Maybe someday you'll tell me. Do you think so?"

He thinks hard on that one, then shrugs.

I smile at him, then roll onto my back, staring up at the ceiling. _God_. I sound just like the doctor, too. Asking questions. Treating him like a baby. How is this place supposed to make us get healthy? It makes me feel sick.

"I'm gonna nap," I say, without much in the way of the gentle tone. I lie on my other side, back to Matthew, and close my eyes. I think I hear a soft, almost inaudible sigh. Is he disappointed? With me?

_Join the club, Matthew. Join the club._


	2. Chapter 2

Less than twenty minutes is hardly enough time to nap. It feels like I close my eyes and open them again the next second, and Dr. Lemmens is at the door, saying, "Time for Group, boys. Let's go."

God, it's like naptime in kindergarten. _Up and at 'em!_ I get up and wait for Matthew to do the same so I can follow him out the door. Even if he does have only social anxiety, I don't want any of these crazies to be behind me. Supervision is required.

Matthew and his bear and I step out into the hall. I feel like I'm in the army, meeting the rest of my squad. Actually, no, that's a crappy word. _Platoon_ sounds better. Or _brigade._ Or _battallion_ , heck yeah! Baddass.

These guys don't look like soldiers. There are three guys walking down the hallway—the rest must already be in the Group room. All three are blond, one far taller than the others. He actually could pass for an army guy, with his broad shoulders and close-cut hair. I can imagine dog tags hanging around his neck. His eyes find mine, and I can't tell if they're friendly or not—they're intense, bright blue, like a husky's.

A chuckle draws my attention to a different blond. This one has plenty of hair, and he's looking at me like I'm something he'd like to eat. He doesn't say anything, though, just saunters past in that way girls do when they want you to notice their ass.

Which leaves the final blond. He doesn't seem to notice me. Or anything, for that matter. He wanders down the hall with his green gaze unfocused, his fingers tapping his thighs absently. His hair is messy, but his clothes are neat; he looks like his mother dressed him. He has that whole sweater-over-dress-shirt thing going on. If he wasn't so spaced out, he'd be the nerd at school who gets bullied for getting good grades and being disinterested in underage drinking.

Matthew waits until the others have passed by, then follows after them with me tagging along. The room is about what I expected it to be, just a rectangular space with chairs arranged in a circle. There's a white board on one wall, a counter along the one opposite. I wonder what's in the cabinets under that counter. There's no sink or anything. Maybe Dr. Lemmens keeps cookies in there? Do we get treats for good behavior?

 _Shut up. You don't want treats. You don't want any food here. It's too hard to get rid of it._ I'll have to figure that out, and soon. What will I do at suppertime? Lucky I missed lunch. Jeez. _Don't stress out just yet._ It's not that hard to stay calm; I have something to distract me now. Group therapy. I gotta admit—I'm curious to meet these wackjobs.

Dr. Lemmens sits in the middle of the circle (does the outside of a circle even have a middle?), legs crossed but hidden by her evil, ugly pantsuit. Matthew sits beside her, hugging—and hiding behind—his bear. The long-haired blond sits on the other side of the doctor. Next to him is a fidgety brown-haired boy with the weirdest eyes I've ever seen. (Amber?) Next is the soldier, looking like a grown man with his long legs and nowhere to put them on that little plastic chair. Then an Asian who looks like he's about to fall into his own grave, all darkness and death. Then the spaced-out nerd, and finally that leaves me to sit between him and Matthew.

"Are we missing somebody?" I ask, without even really meaning to. So much for first impressions. _Hi, I'm the guy who blurts out obvious crap. Nice to meet you._ But what do I care what these guys think of me? I'm gonna be out of here soon, and besides, they're not in their right minds anyway. Although none of them really look crazy . . . except Green Eyes over here.

Dr. Lemmens nods. "Yes, we'll need to get out another chair for our next Group session. Ivan would be with us today, but he's restricted to his room for now."

Long Hair seems to find this funny; he smirks as he combs his fingers through hair that seems too wavy and flowy to be attached to a dude. My father would call him a fruit basket for having hair like that. _If he's in a place like this, does that make him a fruit basket case?_

"Why was he restricted?" I ask. _Worth a shot._

"Oh, I know why," says the amber-eyed one cheerfully. "Because—"

"Mr. Vargas." Dr. Lemmens gives him a stern but slightly playful look. "If Ivan wants to discuss it, he can when he is allowed out of his room. It isn't polite to talk about people behind their backs." She flashes a smile around the circle. "So! Let's get started, shall we? We have a new addition to our group, so let's start with introductions. Alfred, would you like to tell us your name and a little something about yourself?"

Ah, the classic first day of school bullshit. I always used to say _My name is Alfred F. Jones and my dad's in the army._ But I don't want to invite any comments here. That's probably why Dr. Lemmens doesn't have any pictures on her desk, even though she said she has a brother. She doesn't want to seem too human. She doesn't want to give us crazies anything to use against her.

"I'm Alfred Jones," I say, meeting the gaze of the Vargas guy just because he's right across from me, "and I have bulimia."

They'll find out sooner or later, so I might as well get it over with. None of them look snarky like I expected, except maybe Long Hair. He's twirling a blond lock around his pinkie and eyeing me in a way that says, _Interesting. Like to stick things down your throat, hm? I might have something. . . ._

Or maybe he's not thinking that at all. Maybe his face just looks like that. Maybe he's getting to me. Why would he want me, anyway? Not that I'm into dudes. No way. But _look_ at me. I'm not something to want. I'm something to encourage other people not to eat that extra slice of pizza. _Do you want to look like this? No? Choose a salad instead. No dressing!_

Dr. Lemmens looks a bit surprised at my admission, but she says, "Thank you, Alfred, that's very honest of you. Matthew, would you like to go next?"

His eyes widen and he hunches down more, hiding up to his nose in the fluff of his polar bear.

"What's wrong, Mattie?" Vargas is talking again, looking genuinely concerned. "You don't always look so scared. Is it because we have Alfred now? He's not scary, is he?" He glances at me as if for confirmation.

"Not that I know of," I reply. "Except maybe on Halloween."

He brightens, but before he can say anything, Dr. Lemmens cuts in, "It's nice of you to be concerned for Matthew, but if he'd like to just listen this session, that's fine." She gives Matthew a comforting smile, then turns to the guy on her other side. Long Hair.

He doesn't wait to be asked. He sits back in his chair, rests an ankle on the opposite knee, and says, "The name is Francis Bonnefoi. You can wear it out if you want to." He laughs, but through his nose. He has the thickest French accent I've ever heard outside a cartoon, and he smirks seductively at me as he talks. "Hmmmm . . . Something about me . . ." He flicks his hair with both hands so it falls luxuriously over his cheeks as he tilts his head upward, eyes closed and lips pursed slightly in thought. "Well, since Monsieur Alfred Jones was so honest, I will be honest too. The beautiful Laura has diagnosed me with histrionic personality disorder." He opens his eyes and a delighted smirk—does he ever smile without looking like a douchebag?—curls his lips at my confused expression. "Never heard of it? Ah _oui_ , I had not either, until she told me about it. Would you like to hear my symptoms?"

God, how does somebody make the word _symptoms_ sound like a sex thing? Everything about him makes me want to punch something or do a big, full-body shudder. Or both.

"That's enough for now, I think, Francis," says Dr. Lemmens, smiling patiently at him. "Let's move on around the circle—"

"Oh, but Bella." He pouts, leaning his chin on his hand dramatically. "Just a _little_ more—"

"Francis." Firmer now, a warning light in her eyes. "We've been over this. My name is Laura, not Bella. Please call me Laura or Dr. Lemmens."

He grins. His eyes aren't on her face. "We _have_ been over this before, you are right. And I specifically remember telling you, I call you Bella because you are _une belle femme_." He blows a kiss to her, winking. "A lovely lady."

"Jesus." I cross my arms over my chest. "Is he making anyone else's skin crawl, or is it just me?"

Francis's gaze snaps to me, and narrows. No smirky smiles now. Is he violent? Maybe I _should_ have listened to his symptoms. _But hey, look on the bright side. If he beats the shit out of you, you can get out of here and stay in a real hospital. And the food there is so bad, nobody blames you if you don't eat it._ Of course, they'd know me, so they'd probably hook me up to the IV nutrition like they did after Christmas. What a time that was. Not a single cute nurse, either. Serious levels of suck.

The others are looking at me with a mix of impressed and amused expressions. Even Matthew looks relieved that I said something. (Green Eyes and Mopey Asian give no sign of even being in the same room as us.)

"Let's keep things polite and respectful, okay?" Dr. Lemmens glances at me, and is that a hint of gratitude I detect in there? She continues, "It isn't appropriate for you to talk about me in such a sensual manner, but I appreciate the stroke to my ego. Let's keep the circle moving, shall we?"

Francis slouches in his chair, arms crossed, glowering at me. I wink at him before turning my attention to Mr. Vargas. Not so bad, having a rival. It'll give me something to do in this place, at the very least.

"My turn! Okay, let's see, I'm fifteen, and—oh! I'm Feliciano!" He giggles at himself. "And I'll be honest, too. I have attention deficit hyperactive disorder, whoo! That's a long one! And my best friends are Ludwig and Kiku, it's their turns after mine!"

He talks a mile a minute, and I can't tell if it's because he's Italian or because of the ADHD. Either way, I have a hard time believing the serious-faced blond beside him puts up with it. And how can he be best friends with Hello Darkness My Old Friend over there?

Ludwig's accent leaves no mystery. Definitely German. "I am Ludwig Beilschmidt." He pauses. There's something weighty about the pause. I quickly get the feeling that he's not the type to waste a word. If he has anxiety, I don't see any sign of it. "I have three dogs."

Another pause, on behalf of the whole room. I'm waiting for more—the dogs' names, at the very least—but he just sits there, not looking at anything in particular, waiting for us to move on. So we do.

I thought we'd get the silent treatment from dead-eyed Kiku, but he says in a monotone so quiet I have to hold my breath to hear him, "Kiku Honda. Depression."

His face doesn't change as he says it, and his mouth barely moves. He has the blackest eyes I've ever seen. Does he even have irises? He looks like he did a bucket of heroin. Then again, if he's in here—and he's got depression—maybe he did do heroin. It's bizarre to be in a place where bad things you hear gossip about are the actual reality sitting in a chair beside you.

Dr. Lemmens smiles gently. "Thank you for sharing, Kiku." Then she looks at the last remaining teen. I turn in my chair to look at him, sitting a foot away. The doctor says, "Arthur?"

Arthur makes absolutely no response. He stares somewhere up into the upper left, but when I follow his gaze, there's nothing on the wall or the ceiling, not even a speck of dirt. In his lap, his fingertips tap together in a calm but random pattern. As far as I can tell, he hasn't moved since we all sat down. No shifting or adjusting. Even Matthew and Kiku have moved their feet or hands at least once. But Arthur, apart from his fingers and maybe some breathing, is still. I'm not even sure he's blinked. His eyes look like they're glazing over.

The way he looks makes you rethink the phrase _out of your mind_. Because he may look like his body is vacant, but I know he's in there, lost somewhere deep inside his mind. I bet he knows what barbed wire thoughts feel like, wrapping tight and dragging you down. But if you can't bring yourself back up, what happens?

You sit here in Group therapy, tapping your fingers together, drying your eyes out while you stare at nothing at all.

Dr. Lemmens is still trying, though. "Arthur? Can you hear me?"

If he can, he gives no sign of it.

Dr. Lemmens get up, steps over to Arthur, and leans down until her face is level with his. Very gently, she asks, "Mr. Kirkland, would you like to say anything in our Group session today?"

Francis is staring at the doctor's ass. I shake my head at him, but he pretends not to notice. Or maybe he's genuinely only paying attention to her body, which I wouldn't put past him.

Ludwig and Matthew are both looking at Arthur with sympathy in their eyes. Feliciano says, "Come on, Arthur, I know you can do it! We all like it when you visit us! And you have a new friend to meet today, named Alfred! Come meet him, Arthur! He's funny!"

How have I become the funny one? I should tell my mother that, when she visits. If she visits. She probably wouldn't believe me. _You, a comedian? Well, I guess there's a first time for everything, dear. I'm glad you're making friends. Get well soon. Just mind over matter!_

It isn't mind over matter for Arthur Kirkland, isn't it? His mind is a cage, and he can't get out. I can't even tell if he's trying. Maybe he can't hear us at all. There's no way of knowing. It's kind of scary, when you think about it. And kind of, well, heartbreaking, you know?

Dr. Lemmens tries one more time, placing her hands lightly over Arthur's. "Arthur?"

Just like that, he snaps into focus. He looks at her, blinks slow as a lizard, and says in a delicate voice, "I do beg your pardon. Would you mind telling me where I am?"

His voice is a little raspy, but otherwise he's the perfect posh gentleman, out of freaking nowhere. I glance at the others, to see if this guy is for real, but Francis is rolling his eyes and mocking Arthur under his breath, Feliciano looks overjoyed just to hear the Brit speak, and Ludwig just looks . . . tired. A sort of sad weariness in his eyes. The _not again_ look.

Dr. Lemmens smiles patiently, but she has the ghost of _not again_ in her eyes. "You're in the teenage wing of a mental clinic. You're here because you have paranoid schizophrenia, and your family was concerned that you would hurt yourself or someone else if you remained home."

Arthur listens to this with the same patience Dr. Lemmens is giving him, then says, "Well, you can ring my family and tell them I'll be quite alright from here on out. I'd like to go home, please."

Dr. Lemmens stands up straight. "I'm afraid you can't go home just yet, Arthur. You were legally admitted, and so you have to stay here until you're deemed healthy enough to return to public life."

Arthur's chest starts heaving, deeper and quicker breaths. His eyes are struggling to stay on the doctor's face, but not in the Francis way. Clearly trying with every cell in his body to stay calm, he says, "I would like to go home now, please and thank you."

Across the circle, Ludwig looks away. Feliciano isn't smiling anymore. Even Francis looks kind of glum.

Dr. Lemmens says, "Arthur, I'm sorry—"

It's a split second, but I'm close enough to see it: Arthur's eyes unfocus again, and he jerks backward wildly enough that he and his chair go crashing to the floor. He scrambles backward across the floor as if a monster is chasing him down, and when his head bangs against the cabinets—hard enough to make me wince—he lets out the most hideous scream. Arthur, still screaming, struggles upward, stumbles, then sprints for the door, hands over his face, clawing at his forehead and cheeks. When he wrenches the door open, he bounces off the chest of possibly the tallest guy I've ever seen. He must be a nurse, but he doesn't look like one. In a swift, efficient movement, the man secures a hold around one of Arthur's wrists and one of his legs and hoists him onto his broad shoulders. Arthur, for whatever reason, stops screaming and instead begins to loudly sob, "Let me out! Let me out! Make it—stop—let—me— _out!_ "

Indifferent to Arthur's attempts to jerk out of his hold, the man turns and walks away. The door closes. We all listen to Arthur's sobs as the tall guy carries him down the hall, back to Room Three. We hear a door close. Then a sharp cry from Arthur, and after a moment more, silence.

Francis shakes his head. "Such a shame. His _cul_ would be quite lovely if it did not have so many bruises from needles."

"Needles?" I can't help but blurt that out. Good Lord, I hate needles. I used to cry on vaccination days at school. Is there anything worse than an evil hypodermic? (A digit larger than 2 on a scale. The taste of stomach acid. Being a failure.)

Francis arches an eyebrow. "How do you think they calm down violent people in a hospital? Tranquilizers, _non_? And where is a big fleshy place to stick a needle in?"

Oh, _Jesus_. I guess now I know what _cul_ means in French. Poor Arthur.

Dr. Lemmens sets Arthur's chair back into its proper place and returns to her own. She takes a deep breath and forces a smile. "Okay. That didn't go exactly as planned, but I'm sure Arthur will be feeling better by suppertime."

Beside me, Matthew wipes his eyes with the ends of his sleeves. I didn't even realize he was crying. He's silent, and in a room with other people, he's pretty much invisible. I think about putting a hand on his knee or his shoulder, but I don't want to scare him. We don't need another freak-out. One in a lifetime is enough for me. Nerves still prickle in my guts.

Without thinking about it, I raise my hand. "Can I say something?

Dr. Lemmens looks surprised, but pleased. "Yes, go right ahead, Alfred."

"Well, since it's therapy and all, I thought I should do some sharing of feelings, you know?" I shrug. "I just wanted to say. That was scary."

I brace myself for ridicule, but nobody laughs. Matthew nods against his bear. Feliciano says, "I don't think Arthur would hurt us but when he was scared I was scared too."

Ludwig inclines his head. "It didn't feel frightening while it was happening. It was too shocking to cause feeling. But after, now. It's catching up. Anything could have happened."

"Yeah. That's how I feel about it. It was like meeting a bear in the woods or something." I sit up straighter. "No, actually, it's like almost getting into a car crash. You see a deer or whatever coming at you and you don't think or feel, just swerve! And then after it's all over and all the adrenaline goes you realize you're scared half to death. But it's over, so it's kinda, like, a release. Then you feel awesome. Like you beat the odds. Won the lottery!"

It's not nice to say, really, with Arthur unconscious in Room Three and definitely not winning the lottery. But the group takes to it. Ludwig nods and gifts me with a small smile, a respectful one that feels surprisingly good to receive. Feliciano grins, happy to have something to celebrate. Francis actually gives me a quarter of a smile, just a lip quirk. (Maybe I won't have an enemy here, after all?) Matthew sniffles, but no more tears come. And Kiku, he just sits there, lifeless eyes fixated on the floor. Did he care about Arthur's meltdown? I suspect it was one of two: either he didn't give a crap about it, or it just made him even more depressed. I wonder what that's like, depression. I imagine it would be a nice break from anxiety. Caring too much about everything, then all of a sudden caring about nothing? Sign me the hell up for that. (I guess that means normal people fall somewhere between anxiety and depression. People with the self-confidence to love themselves and the ability to let their problems go. I can't even imagine it. Lucky normal bastards.)

Dr. Lemmens is smiling like someone gave her a big present. "Thank you all," she says. "And thank you, Alfred, for speaking up. That was some very good discussion. I'm proud of you all."

Good discussion? A few sentences? Jeez, how hopeless is this place? I really don't belong here. I might hate what I look like, but I don't belong with these poor guys. They're all worse off than me, I know they are. But I'm here, so I might as well make the most of it. If I can't get better in here—if I have no way to lose those few pounds I'm allowed to get rid of—then I can at least help these crazies out. And, hey, they say helping people makes you feel good, right? So it'll contribute to my mental well-being or whatever. Two birds with one stone. Three birds, if I can make some friends, the first friends I'll have had for years.

Do I want nutcases for friends? Well, it's not like I can be choosy in here. And it won't be for a long time, anyway. I'll be out soon. For now, we're all in this together.

"Okay, I think we should end the session there," says the doctor. "Unless anyone has anything they'd like to add? Kiku? Matthew?"

Nope. Silent and silenter.

Dr. Lemmens nods. "Alright. You are all free to return to your rooms or to go the recreation room. Thank you for your honest contributions." She takes out a notebook and pen and starts writing away as we file out. I wonder if she's writing something about my progress. _Started a thoughtful discussion in Group therapy._ The idea of praise, even if it's on a paper I'll never seen, makes my stomach flutter in a delightfully sickening way.

Across the hall, the rec room awaits. I step in last and watch everyone from the doorway. Feliciano grabs a board game and starts setting it up on one of the tables. Ludwig sits across from him and Kiku sits beside Feliciano without even looking at him. Matthew goes to a pair of beanbag chairs in the corner and curls up with his bear. And Francis sits on top of a small table so he can see out of the only window I've seen in this whole wing. It's tiny, with chain-link in it just like the glass in the partition. From here, I can only see sky out of it. I need to get closer. I've never felt such a need to see the outdoors. That old chestnut: never know what you have until it's gone.

I head over to Francis and crane my neck to see out. Just a courtyard out there. Nothing special. Nothing inspiring. I make sure not to stand too close to Francis as we share the view. It wouldn't take too long for the tall guy to rush in, but who knows how much damage could be done in that handful of moments?

"First Group session," Francis says flatly. "Congratulations."

We both stare out the window. This clinic is a maze, I don't know where anything is. Some people are walking laps out in the courtyard. Some are holding hands. One woman has crutches. Many have uneven gaits, limps or waddles. Who knows what's wrong with them? I never knew humans could malfunction in so many different ways. It's almost infinite, our margin for error. It's amazing how many people get to be considered normal. (Again, lucky bastards.)

"Thanks," I say, unsure where we stand. "Who was the tall guy?"

"Abel. Bella's—oh, _excusez-moi_ —Laura's—brother." Francis looks at me dreamily, leaning back against the wall. "He's lovely, too. Lovely Lemmens. I would like to touch her lovely lemons." More nose laughter. "But I would not mind being carried like he carried Arthur. Of course, I would want Abel to stick something bigger than a needle into my—"

"Stop it, Bonnefoi." Ludwig has his fierce blue gaze set to Disapproving Stare, and it shows no mercy to Francis. "No one wants to hear your sex talk."

Francis sighs. The way he holds his hand makes me think he wishes he had a cigarette to puff on. "Tsk. None of you are any fun." He flicks his eyes to me. "I was hoping our new recruit would be a good time, but _non_. Another prude."

"I never said I was a prude," I protest. "I just don't want to make out with everybody I meet, like you."

Francis scoffs. "Not everyone. Just the gorgeous ones." He eyes me up and down. I try to ignore the way it twists my internal organs. My shirt is loose. He won't notice the chub. The weight. Excess. _Stop looking at me. Stop it. Stop it._

"You're not half bad, you know," he remarks finally. "The most handsome of the big boys here, definitely."

 _WHAT. LIES. I am not handsome, get the hell out of here._ "Big boys?"

"The older, tall ones. Ivan is the oldest and tallest, he is eighteen. Then Ludwig, seventeen, _oui_?"

Ludwig rolls a pair of dice and replies without looking over, _"Ja."_

"And now, you," Francis continues. "Feliciano is the prettiest of the smalls. Matthew would be first, if he would show himself, but he hides, so he will have to be second best. I cannot appreciate art if I cannot see it."

I look to the far side of the room, but Matthew seems to be asleep. I don't think he heard anything. Maybe I'll ask him later.

"Kiku is just average, you know." Francis waves a dismissive hand. "Nothing to notice. He does not want to be noticed, anyway."

I can't really argue with that. "And what about Arthur?"

Francis studies his fingernails for a good while before replying, "Arthur is not ugly. He has some very good features. But beauty is no use if you run around screaming. You cannot make love when you are staring like an empty shell." He shrugs shortly. "You can be fucked, of course. Anything can be fucked. A hole in the wall. But to make love, you must be present. It is all about the connection."

He sounds like someone forty years old. I draw up a chair to the table he's sitting on. "So you must have a lot of experience in that area, then?"

Francis scoffs again. "Why do you think I'm in here?"

I blink. "For having sex?"

"It is not the sex that matters, Alfred." He couldn't sound more condescending if he tried. I keep waiting for him to call me _dear boy_ , but I guess that's a British thing, not French. "It is who you do it with that people care about."

"So . . ." I look at him expectantly. "Who'd you do it with?"

Francis's lips curl into a smirk, and he holds a finger to his lips. "Hush hush. Maybe I'll tell you. For a trade."

"What kind of trade? I'm not gonna have sex with you." _Or anybody, until I deserve it._

He rolls his eyes. "That is quite obvious, you do not have to rub it in." He grins. "But you can rub me any time you like." He leans closer. "I will think of what I might trade with you. You never know what people might be wanting, _oui_?"

I get up, shaking my head. "Yeah, sure. You think about it."

I head over to the shelves that line the far wall. The same wall, I realize, that's adjoined to my room. Room One. And adjoined to our other wall is Room Three. Arthur's closer to me and Matthew than to anyone else, apart from the guy in Room Five. Ivan. That reminds me. . . .

I turn. "Hey, Feliciano. You said you knew why Ivan's locked in his room. How come?"

He perks up, glad to be addressed. "Oh! I only saw a little bit. He's really tall so it was hard to see around him. But I was going up to see Ludwig in his room and I looked in Ivan's room to say hi and I saw him sitting on his bed and he had his pants undone and he was doing something weird so I told Mr. Abel and now he's restricted. Ivan, not Abel."

"Something weird," Francis echoes, amused. "Is that what they call it these days?"

Feliciano smiles uncertainly. I wonder how much he actually knows about sex. He said he was fifteen, but he acts a lot younger. And Francis looks my age, but he knows way more than I do. I don't think age means very much in here.

Ludwig's expression has darkened a little. He glances over at Matthew—still sleeping like a baby—and says quietly, "I heard the aide talking to Ivan. The door had been closed, but I could still hear a little, when Feliciano wasn't talking."

The Italian's amber eyes widen. "Oh is _that_ why you shushed me? I couldn't figure it out! You said you heard a birdy but I couldn't hear one!"

Ludwig nods. Even quieter, he says, "Ivan said he was thinking about Matthew. That's why they restricted him."

All of us—even Kiku—look over at the sleeping kid. He really does look like a child, with his too-big shirt and his stuffed animal. It doesn't take a therapist to deduce that none of us want to see the poor guy get hurt by some crazy gay Russian.

Francis looks back out his window. "That is fucked up."

Did his accent slip a little bit there? Or did my ears imagine it?

"He'll be in until tomorrow," Ludwig says, back to normal volume. "We'll be supervised by Mr. Lemmens when Ivan joins us in here."

I don't know if that makes me feel better or worse. I pick up a deck of cards from the shelves of entertainment, but it's a Go Fish deck. (I guess normal cards are too damaging.) I sit at the end of a table and try to figure out a way to play solitaire. Grampa used to play solitaire nonstop in the nursing home. Game after game. When I asked why, he said, _It keeps me from going crazy. Or, more likely, it keeps me from noticing that I'm already gone._

I wonder what would happen if I noticed I was crazy. I smile to myself, despite everything. _I'd probably lose my mind._


	3. Chapter 3

I don't have ADD or anything, but it turns out Go Fish solitaire is pretty boring after about four and a half seconds. Which is how I end up joining Feliciano, Kiku, and Ludwig's game of Trouble. I haven't played the game since I was seven or eight, back when I had friends I could spend summer days with while my father was deployed and my mother was doing whatever it is she does during the day. Back then, she always seemed to be—as she put it to her phone friends—dabbling. A month in interior design, two weeks gardening, a weekend of putting together flower arrangements for a friend-of-a-friend's wedding. Sometimes she even had textbooks out on the kitchen table, and I wondered what she was learning about (she told me it was _adult stuff, dear_ and I was too young to read the big words). Back then, her work was like her dieting would be. A hundred tries, but zero commitment.

Is that what I have? Am I trying to destroy myself? Is every purge a pathetic suicide attempt? Is my mind committing hate crime against my body? What the hell is wrong with me?

"Alfred!" Feliciano's waving a hand in front of my face. "It's your turn, Alfred! You were daydreaming!"

"Yup, guess I was." I press down the Pop-o-Matic and the dice do a little dance in the middle of the board. A two and a five. Lucky number seven. I hop my little red guy around the board. "So, is this all we do here? Group therapy and games?"

"No," Ludwig replies as he pops the dice. "We have school lessons on weekdays."

"Guess I'm lucky I came on Sunday." I have that to look forward to. School with the crazies. "Who's the teacher?"

"Bella," replies Francis, still sitting on the table by the window. "She does everything around here, except the heavy lifting. That is for Abel."

I haven't been back to school since the Christmas break started. I was in the hospital, and I could have gone back for those four days before I got admitted into the clinic. But I knew the news would've already spread. School is crappy enough as it is without everybody staring at you and thinking—oh, whatever the hell they think. _I knew he was crazy,_ probably. Or _yeah, if I looked like him, I'd put myself in the hospital, too._

The worst part was that a tiny part of me remembered that time in elementary school, when a girl broke her arm. We all worked on a big card to send her in the hospital. _Get well soon!_ Everybody signed it and wrote little messages and drew happy faces and hearts. It's stupid, I know, but a tiny part of me thought my class would do that for me.

Obviously, they didn't. It was stupid to get my hopes up. There's the lesson, kids. Don't get your hopes up.

"I don't like school at all," Feliciano says, popping the dice. "It's really boring and I'm not so good at paying attention and that's why I'm here, because I wasn't paying attention at school so good and my teachers thought I was a bad boy and they made me stand out in the hall, but the hall was even more boring than the classroom and I felt like I was losing my mind and I ran out of the school screaming!"

He's an animated storyteller, I'll give him that. Waving his hands around and exaggerating the right words like it's a performance. I raise my eyebrows at him. "They locked you up just for that?"

He hops his yellow piece along. "Oh, no, I was allowed to go back after my suspension was over but my parents took me to see a psychiatrist and he gave me some pills to take, but they made me even more awake and I didn't sleep for two whole nights! That was scary and I started seeing things that I didn't think were there so they brought me back to the psychiatrist and he sent me to Dr. Lemmens, and she did some assessments of me and thought I should stay here for a while, so here I am!" His yellow piece lands with perfect timing on Ludwig's green one. "Uh oh, Ludwig!" Feliciano giggles. "You're in Trouble!"

Ludwig's piece was only—I count in my head—eight spots away from the end, but because Feliciano landed on the same block, Ludwig has to go back to the start. This is the kind of game Grampa would hate. No skill involved, just a roll of the dice. And not even a roll, a pop. I see why they call the game Frustration in Britain.

Ludwig doesn't look very fond of the game either as he moves his piece to the other end of the board. I notice his hands, bigger than mine, with large knuckles and veins like a grown man's. And the skin of those large knuckles is rough, scarred. With the cold anger— _fury_ is too scary—in those intense blue eyes, I don't like to imagine a fight with him. I was going to ask what he was in for a moment ago, but I don't dare do it now. The air around the table has that still quality to it, like everyone is afraid to breathe too deeply. Feliciano is smiling, but he's very clearly looking everywhere but at Ludwig, who crosses his arms over his chest and glares down at the board like it killed his family.

 _How much do you wanna bet those knuckles are why he's not allowed to have a roommate?_ Felicinao is brave for being friends with him. And Kiku is . . . well . . .

"Your turn, Kiku," Feliciano says brightly to the boy sitting beside him.

Kiku doesn't move. He's looking at the table, I think. He doesn't have unfocused eyes like Arthur, they're just so dark, I can barely distinguish the pupil from the iris. He doesn't have the same blank expression, either. Arthur's face was like it was waiting for input, like a screensaver. If his face could melt off into a depressed puddle on the floor, I'm certain it would.

"I'll roll for you," Feliciano says. Pop! The dice dance and land as two fours. "Eight! Do you want to move it for you? Which one? How about this one, that lands on my piece, now I'm in trouble!" He cheerfully moves his piece back to the start, beside Ludwig's. I can't imagine this happy-go-lucky creature running, screaming, out of school. He just acts like he had to much sugar and too much happy childhood. Both are powerful drugs.

My turn again. A two and a six. "Eight again, huh?" I move one of my guys and glance around. "There's eight of us, isn't there? And we all have meetings. We're like the G8."

" _Oui_ ," agrees Francis, tossing hair over his shoulder. "We are all from the right countries."

I count off on my fingers. "America, France, Britain—"

"UK," Francis corrects.

"Same diff."

Francis rolls his eyes. "Typical American."

"Italy, Germany, Japan, Russia, and . . ." I hold up all eight fingers, but I don't know the last one. "Who am I missing?"

Now Francis arches one of his condescending eyebrows. "You really don't know?"

Feliciano jabs his hand in the air. "I know, I know! Pick me!"

I stick my tongue out at Francis—Ludwig's anger has made the idea of enemies a lot less appealing—and point at Feliciano. "Finish 'em off."

"And Canada!" Feliciano looks over at the bean bag chairs. "Right, Matthew? You told me your mom lives in Ottawa!"

Matthew sits up, alarmed, but of course he makes no response. He doesn't even try to, by the looks of it. He just glumly hugs his bear.

"You wanna join our game, buddy?" I offer. The soft edges of my voice surprise me. "Maybe you could tag out with Ludwig, I don't think his skills are applicable to this game."

Matthew and Feliciano both look at me with wide eyes, and I know I've taken a risk. To be honest, I didn't even really think before I spoke. I'd never act like this in the real world—in a room of strangers out there, I'd just sit by myself in silence. But in here, it feels different. I guess it's easier to talk crazy people, in a way. Not if they're like Arthur, though. Then it's basically impossible.

Ludwig looks at me sharply, but he sounds more curious than threatening when he speaks. "What do you mean?"

I shrug. "Well, y'know, you seem like a serious, by the numbers kinda guy. I feel like you like logical stuff, you know, strategy stuff. All this randomness makes the game seem like a waste of time, right?"

Ludwig stares at me. His brow furrows slightly. Then he does the most microscopic smile (his lips don't even move, but his face lightens) and he nods. " _Ja_ , you are right. Matthew can take my place if he likes. I will just watch."

He gets up and pulls another chair over to the table. We all look invitingly over at Matthew.

I don't expect him to come over. I don't think any of us do. I don't even think Matthew himself expects it to happen. But he does. He gets to his feet and walks over to us, with an odd way of walking, like he's almost on tiptoe. Is there something wrong with his legs? Or is he really trying not to disturb us?

Matthew sits down beside me at the table, bear in his lap, and I smile at him. "Welcome to Trouble, my man! You're green, it's your turn. Pop those dice."

Matthew's eyes almost pop out of his head. He looks like I asked him to bungee jump. His eyes flicker to each of us, but thankfully everyone looks on encouragingly. So Matthew reaches out a hand—so small, those pale fingers—and presses down on the plastic to pop the dice. The little cubes hop, and Matthew's lips curl a bit behind the ear of his bear.

"A three, not too shabby," I say, still smiling at him. Is this what parenting is like? It's kinda fun. Like coaxing a turtle out of his shell.

Matthew moves a green piece, then casts his gaze around the table, suddenly frightened. He's afraid that we don't approve of his choice.

There are those people that always find their way onto TV, the ones who can't take criticism. They audition on singing shows and scream at judges who tell them honestly that they suck. But Matthew wouldn't do that. If someone criticized him, he would shatter. I can't imagine growing up alongside him, or raising him, or being him. It would just be so . . . claustrophobic. Dancing around his lack of confidence. Like living with some angry, abusive guy, afraid to light a fuse. _Is that what living with Ludwig would be like?_

If I think about these people long enough, and what's going on in their heads, I get scared to death. But really, it's not just them, is it? You can't ever truly trust anybody. Everyone is unpredictable.

"Yoohoo," says Francis, so close his nose almost brushes mine. He smirks with just slightly moist lips. "There you are. Are you sure you don't have something more than bulimia?"

I move away from him, or as far away as I can without falling backward out of my chair. "Just lost in thought, that's all," I reply, with less heat than I wanted because I don't want to scare Matthew. (I can't help it, he's just too vulnerable.)

Francis draws up another chair, which he straddles, his arms crossed over the top of its back, his chin resting on his wrist. With heavy-lidded eyes, he regards our group of board game enthusiasts. "You seemed pretty deep in those thoughts of yours," he remarks. "Normally, I wouldn't do this, but it's a boring day outside, so I might as well watch your exciting game."

"You can roll for Kiku," Feliciano suggests. "Do you mind if he rolls for you?"

The pause is exhausting to sit through. In an exhale, Kiku replies, "No."

Feliciano smiles at him. "Roll, Francis!"

Francis snorts. "If I had a dime for every time someone told me that."

"Is that supposed to be an innuendo?" I ask. "I'm genuinely curious. Let's get to know each other."

Francis's lip tugs in the beginning of a sneer, but he replies, "Sure, it was an innuendo. Thanks for taking the humor out of my humor. But if you want to know something about me, here." He tugs back his sleeve, and I see reddish, scarred spots in the crook of his elbow, with a few trailing down his arm.

"Is that from, like, cutting?" I ask. It might be inconsiderate to talk about this stuff with Kiku right here, I don't know. I want to be honest around these guys. (I'll be nice for Matthew, but mostly I want to be honest.) There, Dr. Lemmens, how's that for progress? Trying to be a better person. _Alfred Jones, a good man._ Sounds like a dream. Or a typo.

" _Non_ ," Francis says. "It is from needles. They are called track marks here, I believe."

"Like, drugs?"

"Yes, like drugs." More condescending words oozing between those moist French lips. "I'm a fan of feeling good. I think everybody is. The human brain loves feeling good. That's why people get addicted to wonderful drugs. The high is worth whatever it takes to get there." He gives a little nod to me. "You know what I mean, don't you, Jones? Food is a drug, too. Chocolate and sugar, mmm. Sweet things. We all love sweet things. Sometimes a little too much."

Did his eyes just flick down to my stomach did he see the muffin top did he see it oh god does he know does he think I'm disgusting I am I'm disgusting—

Felicinao's nodding and smiling like there's nothing wrong. "I like chocolate! My big brother brought me some for my birthday, remember? Arthur even had one!" He looks a little wistful. "He used to talk to us a lot more than he does now. I kinda miss him."

I can't make myself talk. I just play the game and listen. God, I wish I didn't look like this. Jesus Christ. It isn't _fair_. Why couldn't I have been born skinny? Everybody always says _Oh, life's so easy for you, you're a straight white guy_. My mother always says _I gave you my blonde hair and blue eyes, so many boys wish they could be as handsome as you_. Even my father told me once _You'd look just about perfect if you'd just hold your head up. That's what girls want, Freddy. That's why they always go for the douche over the nice guy. It's all about confidence. If you got that, you got everything._

So what if I don't?

I'm just screwed.

"It's his medication," Francis says. "Arthur always gets worse when they change his pills. They should just give up. They cannot cure anyone, especially not him. They should just leave him be."

"It's a shame," says Ludwig. "You can tell he's suffering. I've never seen anyone look so afraid than how he looks during his . . . episodes."

"I take pills when they say to but I wish I didn't have to," Feliciano puts in. "They taste yucky and bitter and my grampa said that young people like me shouldn't have to take pills so it makes me feel bad." He looks at me. "Do you have to take pills, Alfred?"

I don't want to say anything. It's lying, but I shake my head. It's easier. Just a white lie. I'm not mean, I'm just a worthless human being, that's all.

"They don't make a bulimia pill," Francis remarks. "Pills don't work, anyway. They don't fix anything. They just keep you from noticing the problems."

He must know. He's the expert on everything.

"Are you okay, Alfred?" Feliciano asks, pouting in concern. "You look sad."

I shrug, but that's too much. I can't be an asshole, and I really don't want to be one of those attention whore people, dying for somebody to ask them about their fake problems. So I reply, "Yeah, I'm okay, I'm just getting tired, that's all." I even give him a smile, and it doesn't feel too phony.

I don't remember my mood flip-flopping like this when I was at home, pre-crazy. I mean, I always felt really happy when I ate. And then I felt horrible when I threw it back up. But that's normal, right?

Time isn't normal here, that's for sure. Seconds last for hours, but hours are only a minute long. That sounds crazy, but if you're here, you know it's true. Feliciano wins the game of Trouble, and as they're discussing whether to play another game or not, Francis and Ludwig look toward the door, so the rest of us do, as well.

Dr. Lemmens is there, smiling. "My goodness, I've never seen all of you doing something together. How wonderful. I'm afraid I'll have to interrupt, however; it's suppertime. Please return to your rooms, your meals are waiting for you."

We all file out, but I stay in the back, and Dr. Lemmens smiles at me. "Not you, Alfred," she says. "You'll be eating in my office, remember?"

I remember.

In her office, on the desk, there's a tray like the one she took from Matthew earlier. But this one has a tray on it. I can't see what's in there, but I can smell it. Chicken noodle soup.

 _That's not too bad_ , I try to tell myself. _Soup isn't as bad. It's salty, but it could be a lot worse. Soup isn't terrible. Soup won't kill you._

I don't want to eat it.

"Please, take a seat, preferably somewhere you can eat comfortably."

Ha. Like that place exists anywhere on this earth.

I sit down in one of the chairs this time, even though I don't want to be anywhere near that tray. Dr. Lemmens smiles encouragingly and sits in the chair beside mine. She asks, "Does it smell good, or bad?"

I hug my arms around myself, my hands squeezing my love handles through my shirt. "I don't know. I guess it smells okay. But I don't want it."

"Are you hungry?"

I'm always hungry. "Not really."

She touches my arm. "I don't want to force you into anything, Alfred, but this is a situation much like with Arthur, earlier. We never want to use force against anyone, but when they're at risk of hurting themselves, we have to. For their own good." She pats my arm, eyes pleading. "For _your_ own good, Alfred. Please eat."

And I almost think, with those green eyes and gentle voice, maybe I _could_ —

And then she takes the lid off the tray.

The bowl has yellow liquid in it, bubbling and sparkling on top with the heat, steam still rising, chunks of pale, gummy chicken floating. The smell is thick in my throat, like sweat. Absolutely disgusting.

Dr. Lemmens says, "Alfred—"

That's it. The barbed wire tightens and my arms are too tight around me and her hand is on my arm stop touching me her voice in my head stop touching don't touch stop STOP!

My throat heaves before I even realize what's happening, and more yellow—lemonade and bile—pours down into my lap.

I'm so scared. I just want to go home.

I'm so disgusting. I just want to stop existing.

 _Kill me. Save me. Make it stop._ Everything feels like it's closing in on me and I can't catch my breath and every almost breath makes me want more but I don't want to breathe this gross breath and my throat hurts and my chest feels like it's on fire and I haven't thrown up since Christmas— _am i dying i dont want to die please mommy dont let me—_

"You aren't dying," Dr. Lemmens says, gentle but firm. "You're going to be just fine. Alfred, listen to me. This is horrible now, but it won't last forever. It will end. You just have to breathe. Breathe in, nice and slow, good job. Breathe out, all the bad thoughts leave. Breathe in, good, and out. Breathe in, and out."

Slowly but surely, I come back down to earth. My chest stops burning. My throat aches, but not too bad. My mouth tastes disgusting. I'm terrified to see the soup and have all that start again, but Dr. Lemmens has put the lid back over the tray. So I just with with this nasty liquid in my lap, until Dr. Lemmens gives me some paper towels.

"Here," says Abel, right behind me, and I almost have a heart attack (not really an exaggeration from me). He's holding a clean shirt and change of pants out to me, from the trunk in my room. How did he know to bring those? Does he know everything? Like God?

Dr. Lemmens smiles at her brother. "Thank you. We'll turn our backs so you can change, Alfred."

And they do, they both stand with their backs to me. I don't even want to get up, let alone move around enough to change. My limbs feel prickly, like they've been asleep. Pins and needles. That's what I'd like, sleep, maybe on pins, maybe from a needle. That's what crazies do, right? And I'm that, undoubtedly. I'm a damn lunatic. I change my clothes and ball up the dirty ones and say, "Okay, here." My voice is rough, husky. It used to sound like that a lot, back when I purged all the time. I used to take cough syrup afterward, until I found out there were calories in it. Fifteen calories in a tablespoon? Those are empty freakin' calories if I ever saw them. What a waste.

Then Abel takes the clothes and leaves Dr. Lemmens and me sitting with that tray between us on her desk. She and I both regard it, and she says, "This tray has a lot of negativity around it now, doesn't it? When you look at it, all you can think of is what happened just now."

"Any food will do that," I tell her, and I let her hear the bitterness, the anger, the resentment. I let her hear all of the nastiness inside me, but there will always be more. Never runs out. "Tray or no tray, all food is just a reminder of how terrible I am and how much my body hates me. I don't want to eat and gain weight. I don't need more body to hate."

Dr. Lemmens takes this in for a moment, or maybe she's pausing so I can think about what I've said, but I don't need to. Why would I say it if it's not what I feel?

Then she says, "You need a minimum of twelve hundred calories a day to survive. A healthy diet should not go below fifteen hundred calories. If—"

"I don't care about that!" I yell, but then all the loudness and life goes out of me. My stomach is empty, it twinges, and I sink into the chair, sighing in annoyance. "I know all that, I don't _care_ about it. I don't care anymore. I want to get out of this body. I hate it. It's disgusting. It's fucking disgusting."

Dr. Lemmens shakes her head. Such sadness in her eyes. "No, Alfred. I'm sorry you feel that way, but I can assure you that your body is not disgusting from my perspective, and neither is your personality. You're not obese, and I think you look quite handsome, if you don't mind me saying so. As for your personality, I think—from what I've seen—that you're a wonderful person. Feliciano likes you, and Matthew, and Ludwig. You've been here only half a day, and I can already see how you've brought our group together, first in Group therapy, and then in the rec room. You're that sort of person, the type who can bring people together, even in the worst of situations. That is a very valuable, and beautiful quality in a person." She smiles warmly. "And you have such brightness inside you. I can see it trying to get through. I want to help you embrace it."

I stare at her. A million thoughts go through my head, from protests to humble _oh no, really I'm not that great, really_ to slobbering gratitude to embarrassment to _Why couldn't you be my mom?_

Almost.

I _almost_ let the tears fall.

But I blink them gone and look away and say, "I'm not eating the soup."

Gently, she replies, "No, you don't have to eat the soup. But I would like you to take some vitamins, and—would you be willing to try something else tonight?"

I shake my head without considering it. Two breakdowns in one day is two too many.

"Okay. I understand. But in the morning, I'd like you to try and drink a fruit smoothie. All fresh fruit, I'll prepare it myself and bring it in—I usually make one for breakfast for myself."

I'm quiet for a long while, debating if I should say this, but—screw it—I do: "Can we make it here?"

_Can I help you make the cookies, Mommy? My hands aren't dirty, I washed them with lots of soap and I promise not to get in the way! I'll be a real good assistant!_

_Go outdoors and play, Alfred. Those aren't for us, they're for your father. I'm mailing them to his base. If you stay in here, you'll be trying to sneak one when I'm not looking. I know your tricks, mister._

_I wouldn't sneak! I just wanted to help—_

_If your father told you to go outside, would you have backtalked? Just because I'm not a soldier doesn't mean I'm not in charge of this household, too. Now get going, and maybe you can lick the spoon when I'm done._

I went outside and sat under the oak tree. I didn't want to lick the spoon. I didn't want that petty gift. But when she left to go to the post office with the cookie tin all taped up, I went back inside and licked the spoon, the bowl, even the cookie sheet lying in the sink's soapy water. The soap made me feel sick afterward, and I wanted to lie on the couch and watch cartoons, but my mother brought a friend over, who said, _Best to just give in and throw up. You'll feel better once you do. Happens to me every Saturday morning._ She and Mom laughed but I didn't get it. I retched a little but I couldn't throw up. It was scary, back then, throwing up. Instinctively bad. But you get used to it eventually. Same as anything, I guess.

Dr. Lemmens considers it long enough that I think she'll say no, but she surprises me with, "Sure, I think that might be constructive. You're on, Alfred. We'll make ourselves some smoothies for breakfast tomorrow. For now, you can go back to your room." Her gaze softens. "Good night."

"Good night," I tell her, sounding more hollow than I'd meant to. I go back to Room One, where Matthew is already in bed, the blankets almost completely covering his head; I see the snout of his bear poking under there. I change into my pajamas in the bathroom, brush my teeth—toothpaste doesn't sicken me, thank God—and when I come out, Abel is there with a glass of water and vitamins. Silent, he offers me two pills, and I swallow them without incident. Vitamins aren't bad. They're little health bullets. I used to eat gummy ones shaped like dinosaurs, but I guess they give those to the kid-brained people elsewhere in the clinic.

Abel nods to me and leaves. I get into my bed—the sheets are cool, they feel nice—and surrender to the darkness. I've had insomnia on and off through the years, but no such thing tonight. As I sink into the black, I think I hear a soft weeping, muffled by the wall between Room One and Room Three. I sigh over the hell of this place. _Good night, Arthur._ Then, into dreamless sleep, I plummet.


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning, when I wake up in a place that isn’t my room, the homesickness kicks in.

I haven’t had a sleepover in forever. Who would I have one with? No one hangs out with me anymore. I don’t have any grandparents close enough (or alive enough) to visit. Distant family is all distant. So that’s it, it’s just been me alone in my bedroom for the past five or six years.

Until now.

I roll over and rub the sleep sand out of my eyes, then put my glasses on. Same old prison cell. The light is on. Is that what woke me up? There are still no windows, for those keeping track, and the lack of natural light combined with fluorescents makes the place look creepy. It feels like it’s three AM, in that disorienting kinda gross way I always feel when something makes me in the middle of the night. You don’t know why you’re awake, and it’s like your brain is saying, _What the heck are you doing? Go back to sleep! I was just getting into REM!_

(That’s when you dream. It means rapid eye movement. We learned about that in health class. I was awesome at health class.)

Matthew’s not in bed, but the bathroom door is closed, so that solves the mystery. I hear him brushing his teeth in there. Even this kid’s gargling is cute. Is that a gay thing to think? I don’t think it is. But maybe it is. _God, it’s too early in the morning to question your sexuality._

When he comes out, I tell him, “Good morning. Is it time to get up now?”

He nods. He isn’t hiding his face behind his bear, and I see a little smile on his lips, as well as a bit of toothpaste.

“You got a little blue there,” I tell him, pointing to the corner of my own mouth.

He ducks his chin and wipes at his mouth, embarrassed.

“No worries,” I tell him. The best method of dealing with his fears is probably to be nonchalant about it. Overcompensating will just set him up for failure. Oh, god, I’m slowly becoming a therapist. Get me outta here before it’s too late!

I get up, get some clothes from my trunk, and head to the bathroom, pausing in the doorway. “You all done in here?”

Matthew nods, then jumps slightly at a knock on our door. It opens, and Abel comes in with one of the cursed trays, but thankfully it just has a bowl of cereal on it, so there’s no smell. You’d think they would have healthy cereal here, being a hospital and all, but nope, Matthew’s crunching on Froot Loops. I’d rather see those than granola—ugh, my mother and her low-cal breakfasts. _Just a sprinkle of granola, for my grain intake!_ Gag me. Literally.

While Matthew eagerly eats his colorful spoonfuls, Abel turns to look at me. He sort of reminds me of Ludwig, with cold blue eyes. But these ones are truly cold, frigid—I can’t imagine them holding anger, or any emotion at all. They’re Ludwig’s eyes in color, but Arthur’s in emptiness. Still, you can tell he’s alert. Nothing gets by this guy.

“Laura is ready for you in her office,” he tells me. His accent is thicker than his sister’s, or maybe she just hides hers. I hope not. I don’t like to think about her being . . . what’s that big word . . . disingenuous. How’s that for an SAT word?

“Do I have time to get cleaned up?” I ask.

Abel nods. “Please keep your shower brief.” Then he leaves, closing the door behind him.

I glance over at Matthew, lowering my voice and messing with my consonants in attempt to sound like our aide. I even lift a hand to tug my hair upright, trying to get it spiky like his. “Please keep your shower brief.”

Matthew covers his mouth with his hand, shoulders shaking with silent giggles. I grin at him, then duck into the bathroom and—wishing the door had a lock on it—strip down to my nasty naked body. I avoid the mirror like the plague and hop into the shower. For some reason, the shower head is fixed in a place about four inches too low for me, so I have to duck my head to get my hair wet. What does Ludwig have to do, squat? I almost laugh at the image, then give myself a mental slap. _Stop thinking about other people while naked in the shower. Don’t be a perv._ _Especially for dudes._ That’s the last thing I need, an identity crisis.

They have shampoo and soap, but I don’t know what the brands are, because the soap is grainy and the shampoo smells like the stuff I had to have oozing through my hair when there was a lice outbreak in elementary school. But, whatever, soap is soap. I know the stereotypical guy is supposed to not care what he looks or smells like—and I’ve met plenty of dudes who are proud to smell like sweat, weed, and worse—but I do. I like feeling clean. It’s nice. It’s something to check off my list of Basic Okays. I’m washed. Check. My hair is combed. Check. My teeth are brushed. Check. I have deodorant on. Check. My clothes aren’t too wrinkly. Check. I’m Doing Okay.

The doors are all open—with the exception of Ivan’s—so as I walk down the hall to Dr. Lemmens’s office, I get a glimpse of my neighbors’ morning routines. Francis, finger-combing his hair, winks at me. Arthur eats his cereal with mechanical movements, eyes just as blank as ever. Feliciano pauses in convincing Kiku to eat another spoonful when he sees me. “Good morning, Alfred!” I give him a little wave and keep walking. Ludwig gives me a small nod of acknowledgement. I give him one right back. (I’ll be honest, I’ve kinda always wanted a relationship like that. Just the simple nods, and the meaning is known. I’ve always felt envious of those in the movies. They’re cool.)

There’s nothing else to do but open the office door—except I can’t, because you can only open it with a keycard, and I don’t have one of those. Only Dr. Lemmens and Abel have them; I saw one peeking out of his pocket when he bent to give Matthew his tray. I imagine the action movie version of life, where I’m a super sneaky pickpocket and I steal the card from Abel’s pocket, break myself out of this place, run away to live a life on my own. I’ll be an adult in no time, I would only have to hide from the cops for a couple years. But I’d also have to get some place to stay. Under bridges? What about other homeless people, they might attack me! I’d never be able to stay hidden. But there would be one silver lining: poverty is a great way to lose weight.

I knock on the door. _Just get this over with._

My stomach feels gross. It doesn’t want to eat. It’s nervous. I’m nervous.

The door opens, and I’m staring at a chest. Apparently Ludwig and Abel weren’t enough to meet the Tall Guy Quota for our wing, because here’s another one. I step back and tilt my head a bit, so I can properly see him. This is the sort of body I want, I’ve always wanted. Tall, strong, the sort of imposing image that lets everybody know—without saying a word—that you are not somebody to screw with.

His face isn’t the most attractive I’ve ever seen, though. His eyes are the same purple-ish not-blue that Matthew’s are. It’s a pretty color, but I think it’d look better in a cute girl’s face. His nose is pretty long, too. And his hair is a dull blond, like musty straw. And, weirdly, he has a long brown scarf around his neck, the same light color as his hair. That doesn’t seem like something we should be allowed to have. Isn’t that, like, a suicide risk or something? Then again, Matthew and I could probably break our glasses and slit our wrists if we really tried. And anybody could stuff a sock down their throat if they were super invested. Probably this guy isn’t depressed like Kiku, so they’re not worried about it.

I’m staring in awkward silence, so I say quickly, “Uh, hey. You must be . . . Ivan?”

I’m hoping he’ll say no, but he gives me a little smile that’s almost cute—and, at the same time, almost creepy—and replies in a rolling Russian accent, “ _Da_ , that is me. And who are you?”

I try to remember this guy is bad news—he was doing weird pervy crap, that’s why he was in trouble—but actually talking to him makes it difficult. He’s not an angry guy, and he’s not as fierce as Ludwig, not at all. He’s so . . . laid-back. His words come calmly, his lingering smile seems genuine. He’s like a huge Russian teddy bear.

Maybe he’s a nice guy and his mental stuff just puts him in bad situations. That’s not his fault, right?

“I’m Alfred Jones,” I reply, offering a hand even though I normally hate doing this (my hands are famous for sweating at the prospect of a handshake).

My hand disappears into Ivan’s huge freakin’ mitt, and he shakes more times than seems necessary to me, though I may be biased by the fact that he’s cutting off the circulation to my fingers.

“It is pleased to meet you,” Ivan says, eyes going squinty as he smiles. I don’t have the heart to correct him, or the nerve, I should say, because all my nerve endings are being crushed.

When he finally lets go, I can’t help but cringe as I watch the blood rush back to color my skin. Tingly.

He chuckles. “Woops. Sometimes I do not know my own of strength.” He pats my shoulder, and it’s a miracle my arm stays connected to my body. “Sorry, Alfred. I hope you enjoy your breakfast with the doctor.” And he disappears into his room, door closing behind him.

Well. That was Ivan Braginski. So far, I think he’s the most obvious for mental instability and potential danger. Well, aside from Arthur, but I don’t think Arthur could hurt me. He’s so small, and Ivan is the opposite. He could probably kill me if he fell on me the wrong way.

Dr. Lemmens is bright and smiling as usual. “Good morning, Alfred! How did you sleep?”

“Okay.” There’s a blender on her desk, an extension cord, a plastic bag. Smoothie ingredients are in that bag. I can see the outline of a banana. It’s just fruit. It’s healthy. Fruit isn’t so bad. Which is just what I thought about the chicken noodle soup, and look how that turned out. “Why aren’t there any clocks in here?”

“We’ve noticed that clocks tend to do more harm than good. The ticking can have negative effects on some patients. And some patients find them hard to look away from. And some are just bothered by spending time here, and clocks remind them of that.”

In other words, if a prisoner can see every last second of his time tick away, he’ll lose his mind. “I think that’s pretty understandable.”

Dr. Lemmens nods. “I think so, too. I can see you were acquainted with Ivan. He’s quite tall, isn’t he? Some may find him intimidating, but he’s really a sweetheart.”

A sweetheart? Matthew is a sweetheart. Feliciano probably counts as one, too. But that bear of a Russian? I don’t think so. “He seems kinda . . .” I struggle for a phrase that won’t get me in trouble. “I dunno. Just seems like he could hurt somebody. Maybe without meaning to.”

Dr. Lemmens presses her lips together in thought, “Well . . . I suppose anyone could do that, under the right circumstance. Accidents do happen.”

“Yeah, but he wasn’t locked in his room by accident.”

She doesn’t meet my gaze. “No, that’s true. You’re right. Ivan has some problems he’s trying to work past, and he’s here for help to do that, just like you, and the rest of the patients here.”

I join her at the desk. “What’s with his scarf?”

“I’m not exactly sure where it came from, you’ll have to ask him. Perhaps it was a gift from his family. I’m sure it has a certain sentimental value; he hasn’t gone a day here without wearing it, and he takes very good care of it.” Dr. Lemmens gives a gently scolding smile. “But let’s not discuss him behind his back. Are you ready to make breakfast?”

Am I ever not. But I stand beside her, and I nod. “What do you have?”

“Bananas, blueberries, and strawberries.”

 _Grampie! Look at all the berries! They’re all over!_ The sun is in my eyes, I’m just little, shortes and a dinosaur T-shirt and sunscreen on my cheeks. The field of the U-Pick is bigger than anything I’ve ever seen, it goes on forever. My grampa smiles, he says we can have as many as I can pick. The straw pricks my wrists and I have red stained into my hands, and and Grampa’s back is sore from bending over, but we have a big bucket of strawberries. _Just watch_ , Grampie says. _We’ll make ourselves a strawberry rhubarb pie, just like Gramma used to make. Remember?_ I don’t remember, but that’s okay, because the pie is delicious, and guess what? Grampa lets me have two whole pieces, all for me!

“Alfred?” Dr. Lemmens, staring at me expectantly.

I take out the bananas and blueberries and cover the strawberries with the plastic of the bag. “These. They’ll work.”

She smiles encouragingly. “Alright, excellent. Let me know if you feel unwell at any point, Alfred, and we’ll stop. Okay?”

“Okie dokie.” It’s really too early for this stuff. It’s too early to be the funny one.

But, as we make the smoothies, I actually start to enjoy myself. There’s a built-in satisfaction to making something, and a blender is like a paper shredder for fruit. It is extremely satisfying to watch a big banana get torn to mush by our blender, and the blueberries mixing in. It only takes a few moments, can’t take it back. No putting Humpty Dumpty back together again.

“All done?” Dr. Lemmens asks. She let me do the blending! How cool is that?

I take the top off and peer down in. “Looks pretty smooth.” And, shockingly, it’s not triggering any gag reflexes, which is a good thing. The only way I can get out of eating in here is if I keep having big panic attacks, making a disgusting scene. Gaining a couple pounds—as freaking horrible as that sounds—isn’t as bad as the hell of constant anxiety attacks. If Laura can find foods that I can eat, I’ll eat them. Then I’ll get out of here and get the weight off, and start working on those few margin pounds as she said I can lose. It’s good to set goals, right? That’s a healthy thing to do.

I make a bit of a mess pouring two glasses of smoothie, but Dr. Lemmens just waves it off. “Don’t worry about that. No use crying over spilled smoothie!” She winks. “You’re not the only funny one.”

In another world, a girl this beautiful winking at me would have unspeakable thoughts going through my head. But I’m stuck in this world, so I just look down, the tips of my ears burning. “My mother would freak out if I spilled something on a table at home. She has all the rooms decorated real nice. She wanted to be an interior decorator at one point. Or designer. One of those. Anyway, she has all kinds of furniture in the living room and the dining room, they all have fancy names. We hardly ever sit on the sofas in the living room. They’re white, so it would just be a mess. And we never use the dining room.”

Dr. Lemmens must realize I’m stalling, but she indulges me, thank God. “Why don’t you use the dining room?”

“I guess because we only have two people, with Dad always on deployment. Sometimes when he’s home we use it. And we use it for big holidays, when the relatives come over. Thanksgiving. Christmas.” Candles. . . .

“So meals aren’t family affairs in your house, usually?”

“Nope. I mostly eat in my room. Whenever I can.”

“Why is that?”

“I like the privacy.”

“You don’t like people to see you eat?”

“Not really.”

“Why is that?”

“That’s obvious.” Turn your brain on, doc.

Dr. Lemmens’s brow furrows a little. “I’m sorry, but it isn’t obvious to me. Could you explain what you mean?”

“When people see a chubby guy stuffing food in his mouth, what do they say? _Oh, I bet he just ate five minutes ago. He doesn’t need that. He should have more self-control._ ” I glare down at this stupid ugly smoothie. “I don’t want to hear any of that. I know when people are thinking it. You can always tell, from their faces. Everybody judges. Especially my mother.”

Damn, I shouldn’t have said that. It slipped out! Now she’ll be asking me about that forever, crap!

Dr. Lemmens has a serious look on her face now. “Alfred. I want you to listen to me. I am being completely honest and objective with you. You are not fat. You have a perfectly healthy weight. And you really don’t appear to be heavy. You look like a typical teenage boy. You’re someone who could be on a TV show, actually. You are the American boy.”

What on God’s green earth is she talking about? I can’t even summon the strength to give her a response. She thinks I’m skinny? Sure, whatever. Think that, Dr. Lemmens. Go ahead. I’m crazy, and I guess you are, too. We’re in the right place.

She can tell the conversation has died, because she sighs to herself and says, “The smoothie tastes delicious. Try some.”

There’s no way out of it. I’m too tired, getting up this early in this strange place, to feel much anxiety. It’s sort of like it’s muffled. I imagine a layer of cotton surrounding me, keeping all the bad things out, nice and soft. I’m safe in here. Safe in my cloud. Except.

“Turn around,” I say.

“You want me to turn around?”

“Yes.”

“I promise, I won’t be judging you.”

“Still. Turn around.”

“Alright. If it will make you more comfortable, I’m happy to do it.” She turns her back on me, drinking her smoothie and tapping the fingers of her free hand on her thigh. It must be to the beat of a song, because she’s humming on-and-off too, but it reminds me of Arthur.

“Maybe you could talk while I drink this,” I say, trying to sound as friendly as possible.

“I could do that. What shall I talk about?”

“Will you tell me about Arthur? Even though he’s not in here and it’s rude or whatever?”

A pause. Then, “I’ll talk about him, but nothing too private, and only if you drink your smoothie.”

“You drive a hard bargain.” But I tip up the glass and make a noise so she’ll hear that I have a glass around my mouth, and I swallow a little bit of smoothie. It tastes sharper than I thought it would, but it’s not too bad, even if the texture is pretty gross. I’ve never really liked goopy things, like apple sauce. But it’s healthy. Fruit doesn’t pack on the pounds. The body can use fruit as good, natural fuel. My stomach isn’t sure of it at first, but it calms down quickly.

I’m eating.

Well, drinking, technically.

But that’s progress! Let me outta here! I’m cured!

“How does it taste?” asks Dr. Lemmens.

“Not the best smoothie,” I reply. “But it’s edible. Drinkable.”

“Potable,” she corrects with a kind laugh. “I’m glad you like it. I’m very proud of you, Alfred. This is a major improvement over yesterday.”

You don’t say. “Now Arthur stuff.”

“Well, you already know his diagnosis, since I mentioned it in our Group session. And, as you could hear from his accent, he’s from England. His family came here when he was ten. His father is a very successful businessman.”

I guess that explains the fancy clothes, but it’s still pretty boring. “Is he always like that? Staring off into nothing?”

“No, he’s quite talkative some days. He and Francis used to get into very heated arguments, actually. Those two were always bickering about something.” The fondness in her voice surprises me almost more than the words. She sounds like she’s talking about old friends, or family. “But Arthur’s condition has worsened in recent months, so I’ve been trying to find a suitable medication plan for him. I hate to see him suffer like he did in our Group session.” I can tell she’s genuine; there’s audible pain in her voice. “He has a very unstable mind.”

I force myself to take a bigger swallow of smoothie. It almost makes me gag, but I get it down. Progress. Queasy progress. “I saw him eating. He looked like he was on autopilot.”

“Yes, it probably would look like that. I can’t say if that’s actually the case—it’s hard to say what, exactly, is happening inside his head when he exhibits the flat effect. He can do simple, familiar movements when prompted. If you give him a spoon, he’ll eat with it. If you stand him up, he’ll walk. He knows where the rooms are, he can go to whichever one you tell him to go to. But he can’t dress himself, for example. Abel and I help Arthur get himself ready for the day or for bed.”

The smoothie is tasting bitter now. I’ve never heard someone my own age having to live like that. Being dressed by other people? They would see my disgusting body, touching it everywhere . . . horrible on all sorts of levels. But—jeez Louise. Poor Arthur. “That’s awful.”

She shrugs, back still turned. “That’s his life. Everyone is different. We all need help in different ways.”

“How long has he been here?”

“Are you almost done your smoothie?”

I look down into the glass and realize that, yes, I’ve actually drunk the whole thing. I tip the glass back to get the last drops, then set it down next to the blender. “Yep, I’m all done.”

She turns around and the smile on her face, the delight and pride, because of something I did, it makes me want to cry. She puts a gentle hand on my shoulder and says, “That is incredible, Alfred. I am so proud of you. After yesterday, this is a real achievement. You should be very happy with it.” And, good to the trade, she answers my question: “Arthur has been here almost three years.”

Three?! Years?! “Oh my God. I can’t imagine being here three _months_.” I give her a little smile. “Uh, no offense.”

She narrows her eyes playfully. “Some is taken, but I understand what you mean. He’s been a very difficult case for me. He once showed a lot of improvement. Like I said, he and Francis would talk to no end. And Arthur and I would have private sessions, like I do with all patients. He would tell me about his—well. He called them his magical friends.” Her gaze wanders, as if lost in memory, before she abruptly shakes her head. “Listen to me, I can’t share such details with other patients. It isn’t ethical. Please do not tell anyone what I’ve said, Alfred. These are very private matters.”

I’m kind of disappointed by how concerned she sounds. Does she really think I would tell the others about this stuff? I wouldn’t want somebody blabbing about my mental issues, so of course I won’t do it to someone else. _Do unto others_ , if you like that saying. _Don’t be a freakin’ hypocrite_ works better for me, personally.

I make sure I sound serious when I tell her, “My lips are sealed. It’s nobody else’s business, right?”

Her smiles returns. Oh, those green eyes. “Thank you, Alfred. I appreciate that very much. It’s very mature of you.”

I nod, smiling back. It’s been a good morning. The smile doesn’t take much effort at all. For the first time in a long time, I can actually smile with a feeling of ease, of content. I’m good. This is good. We’re all good.

“Now.” Dr. Lemmens claps her hands together. “Are you excited for your first day of classes here at the teenage wing?”

And there goes my good mood.

 

. . .

 

Turns out the Rec Room also doubles as a classroom, because when Dr. Lemmens and I get there, everybody’s seated at the tables with paper and pencils in front of them. None of the tables are for more than four people, but in a room of mental illness, that’s not really an issue. Ludwig, Feliciano, and Kiku are in the middle of the room. Arthur and Francis sit on opposite sides of another table, neither of them looking at each other. Matthew sits by himself, bear in his lap, avoiding everyone’s gaze as always. And Ivan sits at the little table near the window that Francis was looking out yesterday. Nobody is looking at him, but he’s smiling, that little daydreamy smile, the smile of the guy who knows something everybody else is ignorant to. Next to his little table, Abel stands with his arms crossed, face serious and unreadable. He’s big and intimidating enough that I don’t fear for my well-being, but I can’t help but worry about Matthew. Even with two adults to govern us. Even with Abel’s tranquilizers. Even with Ludwig, who is probably strong enough to take Ivan down, if he wanted to.

 _That might not be a good thing._ What if he hurts someone? What if he hurts me?

Dad always said if you worried about every possible thing that could go wrong, you’d die before you got through them, die from old age after doing nothing your whole life. And I don’t know about you, but I’d rather not have that as my life story. So I go over to Matthew’s table and knock my knuckles against the chair beside his. “Mind if I sit here?”

He doesn’t look as startled as I thought he would. He takes a moment to process the question, then nods eagerly. I sit down and give him a little smile. It’s so weird, being in here. I would never go up to somebody like that in real life, but here in Crazy Land, I’m the funny, chatty guy. I’m even friendly!

If they had TV, internet, and less insanity in here, it’d be better than life outside.

I take my seat beside Matthew and watch Dr. Lemmens walk to the front of the room. Feels like the first day of school all over again, minus the stress of being surrounded by people who are more attractive and confident than me. (Except Francis. Although I think he’d look a lot better if he cut his hair, but maybe that’s just me.)

“Good morning, everyone,” says Dr. Lemmens. “I hope we all slept well. It’s Monday, so we’ll start with something easy, okay? Art. You all have white paper and pencils, and Abel brought us some crayons from the children’s wing.” She chuckles. “Hopefully they had some extras.”

Abel’s voice doesn’t have the slightest hint of humor in it. “Yes, hopefully.”

“Oh, silly, I’m sure they do. You can all draw whatever you’d like, to warm up, but don’t put too much effort in, because after that I want you to draw something that reflects you. You can take as much time as you need; today will be a very laid-back class, just so we can easy everyone in.” She winks at me. Not a creepy wink, like Francis would, but a friendly wink.

Alright, so this must not be actual school. It must just be vague lessons so we don’t forget what going to school is like. Kind of a waste of time for Arthur. Three years? That’s seriously like prison, no jokes this time. I don’t think I could get used to life outside again after three years. I mean, my god. Three years!

I look over at Matthew’s blank paper. He’s holding a pencil, but his lips are pressed together, expression conflicted, like this is the biggest decision he’s ever faced.

“Can’t decide what to draw?” I ask, leaning a bit closer.

He glances at me quick, then down again, shaking his head.

“No you can’t decide?”

He shakes his head again, thinks, then nods.

I smile. “Well, she said we can just start with doodles. How about a maple leaf? That’s like, uh . . .” I try to draw one on my own paper. It looks like a cartoon explosion with a stem under it. “Well, you can probably do it better than me, but anyway.”

Matthew trembles with silent laughter at my attempt, then starts drawing away. Not a doodle, but a slow, methodical sketch, each line drawn lightly first, then altered as much as need be before being traced over again carefully to make them dark. I guess it makes sense that someone so worried about acceptance would be a perfectionist. Seems like wasted effort to me, but his expression—tongue sticking out slightly, eyes unblinking in concentration—is pretty darn cute.

I have no idea what to do for my drawing, sketch or not, so I look for Dr. Lemmens. She’s sitting beside Arthur. Catching her eye, I ask, “Can I go around and see the other drawings? I’m trying to find inspiration.”

She nods. “Yes, but try not to waste time. This _is_ supposed to be school, remember.”

I give her a salute and head over to Feliciano’s table, where he is definitely holding court. Chatting up a storm, as always, smiling and waving his pencil wildly.

“Hey, careful, there,” I tell him. “I know my eyes aren’t the best, but I still wanna keep ’em.”

Feliciano laughs. “Hi, Alfred! Look, I’m drawing me and my brother and my grampa!” He shows me his paper. I’ll admit, it’s not half-bad, in that artsy minimalist kinda way. They’re really just stick figures, but with enough detail that I can easily see the love of the grandfather, the happiness of Feli, and the grumpiness of his brother. “That’s Lovino,” he tells me, sounding fond. “He always frowns and kicks things, I love him a lot though. Do you have a brother?”

“Uh, no. Only child.” One of those things that matters more to other people. “What about you, Ludwig?” I ask, coming around.

One of his big hands covers his paper. “I have a brother.”

“Oh, cool. I meant, like, what are you drawing?”

“Oh.” He peeks under his hand, then glances at me, actually kinda sheepish. “I’d rather wait to show when it’s finished.”

“That’s cool, man.” I glance at Kiku. “You, uh, looking for inspiration, too?”

His face is turned toward his paper, but his dark gaze is headed across the room. Looking at Ivan, who is intent on his own artwork by the window. Even Kiku doesn’t trust this guy. I want to say something to Kiku, but I don’t want anyone to hear, and leaning down would be too weird, so I just nod to him in what I hope is a knowing way and go to Francis’s table.

“Bonjour, Alfred,” he says, blowing a kiss to me.

“Holy crap,” I say, by way of intelligent response. It’s all that comes immediately to mind, because Francis is currently shading the petal of an incredibly realistic rose. I don’t even care about stroking his ego. “That is so good! How did you do that without, like, a reference?”

He smiles, eyes glued to the paper. “Practise makes perfect. I have become very interested in art in recent years. But I have always been an artist. But of course, I am French.”

I can’t get irritated by his snootiness because I barely hear it; my attention has moved to Dr. Lemmens, who is trying to help Arthur move his pencil across the page.

“Let’s try a flower, like Francis drew, okay?” she says gently, adjusting the grip of his slender fingers. Arthur’s gaze isn’t on the paper, though; I almost jump out of my skin. He’s looking right at me.

“Um, hello,” I say, unsure if he’s even seeing me.

To the surprise of everyone at the table, he says, “Hello. Who are you?”

Guess he wasn’t listening while he was staring at the wall in Group. Or maybe he just has no memory of the blank-faced times, like he’s asleep with his eyes open. “I’m Alfred Jones. Nice to meet you, Arthur.”

“Arthur,” he echoes softly, lips curling in delight. He notices the pencil in his hand, the paper and crayons. “Oh, are we doing art? Lovely!”

This cheerful tone is not the same as the strained politeness Arthur spoke with yesterday. I glance at Dr. Lemmens, and I don’t know how I feel about the uncertain look on her face. Francis shares that look, brow furrowed, nose wrinkled. The _what’s wrong with you?_ look.

Has he acted like this before? I can’t just ask in front of him. And it’s none of my business. The only person I need to worry about is myself. I have my way too much stress already without these crazies adding more.

I head back to my table, where Matthew shows me his finished maple leaf. He colored it with red crayon, and he didn’t go outside of the lines once.

I grin at him. “Good job, buddy! See, I told ya you could draw one way better than me. That looks great. I’ve never drawn something that neat in my entire life.”

Matthew smiles wide, eyes squinty, so happy to be praised. He moves on to his next paper, already starting on a new one (without my input this time), and I just happen to glance up, over his head, across the room. Ivan is watching him, that little creepy smile on his lips, his purple eyes dark, something undeniably _bad_ about his face. No, not just bad. Wicked. Evil. Malevolent.

I don’t need to worry about anyone else here, but I’m keeping my eye on Ivan Braginsky, because I might be crazy, but I’m not stupid.


End file.
